A Quiet Death
by forgetmenotjimmy
Summary: John is living a quiet life in the countryside somewhere. It's perfectly nice and it's horrible, but it's still better than the pain of London. After all this time, it hurts. Warning: swearing and horrendous spoilers for the Sherlock series finale!


Author's Note: I am being serious when I say don't read unless you've seen the episode. I don't think it would ruin the whole thing, in fact, part of it is revealed in the first few minutes, but if you don't want to know how it all ends, don't read this! It might confuse you as the plot's as complicated as ever and also I've taken some dialogue directly from it; it is beautiful and heart-wrenching so again, it might spoil the scenes for you.

…

"_Please, one last miracle for me…"_ It's the same, every night. There he is. Standing as tall as he'd always done ever since he enlisted, back straight and legs strong, looking down on the plain gold lettering carved in black. Two words. Capital letters. To the point and written like it should be shouted. It was his style, he'd approve. Oh God he shouldn't have…he shouldn't…he shouldn't be there. That beautiful man shouldn't be beneath that fucking headst-

"_Stop it."_ Whispers crawl in and out of his ears as he's watching the lone figure high above him, the black coat fluttering slightly in the wind, too far to read his expression, too far to reach out and touch him, to feel him beneath his fingers, to pull him from the edge. His brain slows to a sickenly slow pace, one he knew his best friend would scream at, but he just can't process it. He's been through this scene a thousand times, melting over his eyes in the middle of the night, filling him with a horror that the battlefield never could; but it hurts every time, it still cuts him, he still bleeds. Hopelessly, he sees the figure on the rooftop, he's holding the phone in his hand, he's hearing the calm but breaking voice in his ear; then the voice stops and he's seeing the body tilt, tilt, tilt…

"_Goodbye John."_ He left London as soon as he could. The funeral was quick and quiet and done with; him and Mrs Hudson and the priest. Mycroft had lurked in the background, not coming up and speaking, just catching John's tired eyes and giving a small, meaningful nod. In that gesture John knew that his best friend's brother was desperately regretful, saddened and willing to take care of the things Sherlock would have wanted taken care of. John guessed that Sherlock hadn't told Mycroft anything but there was an understanding between them that both would deny; they were brothers after all. The old soldier hadn't seen that too clean face again, he had once asked himself why: Mycroft had schooled himself to fulfil social norms and the norm after a loss was to offer condolences or share in grief. But then he remembered how well the man read people, he would know of all people that John did not want condolences, he did not want to share… To share grief. He wanted to be left alone, and so he was.

There wasn't a will. They were boring apparently, John wasn't surprised; so the Government sleuth had claimed a few items of sentimental value and left the rest, including quite a large fortune, to John and Mrs Hudson. The doctor hadn't been back to the flat, he couldn't. So their landlady had gone round the flat, sorting through everything; the scientific equipment had gone to various schools and some hospitals, the books likewise, all the papers and information on cases LeStrade had taken – something which John sometimes wanted to contact him and ask about but never did – and everything else she had boxed up and put into storage. For whenever he was ready. He hadn't been ready yet. The last time he'd seen Mrs Hudson had been outside Paddington Station; she'd come to see him off, see him get on a train to his new life. _Fresh start in the fresh air._ That's what she'd said, knowing full well that there was no new beginning, there was no escape, there would never ever be anything like that for him. Never again, not after everything.

John had felt a stirring of guilt at leaving her alone, but she reassured him that her sister would stay with her for a while, and she did have her own computer now. He'd nodded formally, suddenly stiff and awkward around her. Kind eyes welled and she embraced him first, her comforting scent loosening up his joints and bringing a bit of his warmth back. Reluctantly, they'd pulled away and he'd walked away, looking back once to wave, and then he didn't look back anymore. He heard from her regularly, usually superfluous gossip and what-not, but it was nice and it made him feel like smiling. She was distraught, but strong. Good old Mrs Hudson. As Sher- …as his best friend had once said, if Mrs Hudson were to leave Baker Street, then England would fall. Anyway, it was easier not to have to face the past.

He loved London, thrived on the vibrancy and dirt and break-neck speed at which he'd been taken through it, at which he'd been shown all of its horrors and wonders and secrets. He hated it. Almost all of his memories of London were too painful to recall; yet they persisted anyway. Cabs, round and black with shining neon words flashing at him. Bloody things. They would flash past him on the winding country roads, dark and small and quick; then he'd blink and see a Jeep or a people carrier, the only cars people drove around where he lived. The smell too, there was no smell like a London cab, stale and sweaty and…some other unidentifiable smell, it was unique and yet somehow it popped up in the most random of fields on fresh summer days and in the snow on his flower beds in the darkest winter.

"_Please…do it for me, just for me."_ He's now a local doctor in a small village somewhere on the border between England and Scotland, sometimes, he doesn't even know what it's called; such an insignificant detail, he's deleted it from his hard dri- No. No that's not his own voice. That's the other voice that talks in his head, the voice that just won't stop going round and round like an excitable child. The man down to a tee. Anyway, it was nice enough, the village; quaint. Quaint little people with their quaint little medical problems. He hated them all. No, that wasn't fair… To hell with being fair, they were all boring sods; good and warm and nice but boring little people with their idiotic little- _Stop it. Stop talking in my head._

John walks in the beautiful and empty grassland about a mile away from the little cottage he acquired with some of the money from… From the fund he'd split with Mrs Hudson. He didn't love it or hate it, it was just a house, a functional building that he woke up in, eat in, read his emails in, stared into space in, and sometimes slept in. He preferred to be outside, even though his leg had begun to stiffen again; all in his head, he refused to use a cane again, pushing himself, trying to convince his stupid mind that there was nothing wrong with the damned thing. There was nothing wrong. It's a sunny day and he hears birds chirping and flitting about in the lush trees. Every so often he sees a hiker or holiday-maker or fellow villager and nods in acknowledgement. But he hasn't seen anyone in a long while and he prefers it that way. It's so quiet and idyllic here, the soft summer breeze blowing across his face and ruffling his hair. He ignores the tremor in his hand and forces his shoulders down, trying to work loose the left one, the one that had been shot. Closing his eyes, he stands still, breathing in the freshness springing up around him, the pureness of the light, the lightness of the air, the goodness of such an untarnished place. Slowly, he opens his eyes.

He immediately spots a lone figure in a long, black coat in the distance, over on the next hill. If he squints, he can see a deer stalker perched on its head. Bile rises in his throat as his heart twinges painfully; it's a dual sensation he has grown accustomed to, for he feels it whenever he sees something that reminds him of… Reminds him of Sherlock.

And by God that happens every single fucking day.

"_SHERLOCK!"_

He's being haunted by that voice in his head, that face in front of his eyes, the assurance and the energy, the brilliance and… and the _life_.

"_You were wrong Sherlock…you were the best man…the most human, human being I've ever known."_ He wishes that he'd told him; he wishes every night as he shoots up from his bed, hot and sweaty and crying and out-of-breath, he wishes that he'd at least said those words to Sh…to Sherlock in his last moments. Before. Before it had all ended and he had died.

The figure still lingered on the hill and with a sad little smile, John saluted it, and saw a flash of annoyance across that brilliant face, disbelief at being made to wear that damned deerstalker, hating how everyone else loved it. John saw sparkling eyes and dazzling fake grins, then smaller, nicer smiles and softened features, serious and caring. He sees this all behind his eyes, eyes that are finally dry when seeing that face even though it was gone forever. He turns slowly, sighing as he remembers that he had an answering machine message from Harry; some things never change. Yes he still worked and talked to people, and walked in the hills and breathed; but it wasn't really living, he wasn't animated or happy, at least like he'd been when he'd been with Sherlock. Back when he was alive.

Yes, he was having a quiet death.

…

Sherlock flinched at the salute. Had John recognised him? Did he know? How could he know? He watched John turn and walk away and out of sight. Cursing his carelessness he shook his head frustratedly. No, of course John didn't know; if he did he definitely wouldn't walk away, he'd run as fast as he could, he'd shout, he'd chase, he'd curse, possibly get violent and punch him or sentimental and try to hug him. Probably both, in quick succession. No, Sherlock thought as he stared at the empty space where his best friend had just been standing, John didn't know.

And he couldn't. He wasn't allowed to. He should stop stalking him, he'll slip up sooner or later. His ex-best friend. He paused, not sure if being dead meant that you weren't technically friends anymore. Sighing, he twisted his lip, knowing that John would have reprimanded him for such a thought. _Of course we're still friends, even though you're dead._ It was strange, even though he hadn't spoken to him in so long, the inner dialogue in his head still ran perfectly. He still knew him, knew his best friend. At least, he thought he did, he couldn't be sure now.

Anyway, he couldn't afford to be seen again, John wasn't an idiot, no matter what he'd ever snapped at him whilst he was trying to think; he'd work it out and… It was not the first time that the detective longed to make contact, to…

He couldn't go it over in his head again, it just might kill him. He knew the reasons why he couldn't; safety, threat, safety, happiness, danger, God… It bored him but perhaps unsurprisingly, it hurt him too. To be so near to someone, to see them as clear as day, to be able to hear their thoughts in your head because you knew them so well, and yet to pull away, to stay hidden, to be hopelessly useless. He had some idea of how John had felt watching him jump off the rooftop and prayed that one day he could heal the pain, one day that he could make up for it. Even though at the moment, it didn't look a likely possibility. Even though it was biting at his heart. Sometimes he marvelled at the intensity of the pain he felt, the sense of loss so profound…some days it was like John had died, like he'd been ripped from life, buried underground to be mourned and cried over, and eventually forgotten. But no, he was very much alive, and hurting, forever hurting and that thought cut Sherlock deeper than anything.

He'd put a recording device behind his headstone at the graveyard, ducking in quickly as he saw them drive up to the graveyard. A safe distance away, he'd watched curiously, nervously, painfully; his best friend, his only friend, and his landlady, his pseudo-mother, standing over his fake grave. It had been the surrealist moment of his life; part of him knew that John would be appalled, spying on people's grief, deliberately refraining from comforting people's hurt, but he couldn't help it, he had to have something, something to know what was going on in John's head. It was disconcerting not being close to him, not being able to read the signs and tell what he was thinking, not knowing; it had been bothering him so much, scratching away at his mind, insistent and growing desperate. So he watched them, a deep pit in his stomach opening as he saw them comfort each other. There'd been a hairy moment when John had stepped right up to the headstone and laid his hand on the top but he luckily he hadn't spotted the small black device in the grass. No, Sherlock had watched Mrs Hudson wonder off, giving John time to talk, then walk away, only to turn and come back, pointing his finger at the grave, making a point. He couldn't make out any expression or meaningful conclusion about his stance, it was so frustrating. After the two had left, he'd crept back and picked up the device, slipping it into his pocket and climbing into one of Mycroft's anonymous cars. Every night Sherlock wished he hadn't planted it there, he wished that it hadn't picked up every word they'd said, he wished that he could have heard John say those…those words to his face, and not start to cry.

Oh God John what have I done to you?

"_You were wrong when you said that you weren't a hero."_ He could almost laugh. Laugh at how the whole world was so blindly lead, so easily convinced when there was so much evidence of the contrary, and yet John hadn't wavered for one second. Mor- that sick bastard had turned everyone against him, but the one person who'd mattered above all, the one person he couldn't bear have leave him, didn't. Yes Mrs Hudson and Molly still believed in him, but they weren't there when Moriarty had probably put on the best acting job he'd ever seen, with papers and documents as 'evidence'; they weren't there when Sherlock himself had admitted it, had tried to convince them to believe it. No, John had punched a very powerful man for him, he had been arrested for him, gone on the run with him, had tried to stop him from…

It burned him. Fucking Moriarty reared into his head again but he shoved him down angrily. No. You are dead. You psycho, you are finally dead. You can't hurt anyone anymore. You can't hurt me anymore.

Except he could, and he still did.

It was better this way. Better to stay hidden. Better for everyone.

He hated the world. He hated his life. He hated being without John.

He hated to hear John close to tears, talking to his empty grave. He hated watching him from afar, walking in the fields, always alone and always stiffly, his leg playing up again. He hated knowing that John was hurt, knowing he could end it, could heal him.

Every night he wished he hadn't planted the blasted device there.

And yet every night he listens to it.

...

Author's Note: I've translated this into French which you can find on my profile as 'Un Mort Silencieux' but it's not great because I'm just learning, the fantastic Clélia has written a better translation which you can find on her profile here:

w . w . w . f a n f i c t i o n . n e t / s / 7 9 7 8 5 2 7 / 1 / U n _ m o r t _ t r a n q u i l l e


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